


The Prince and the Slave

by TheLadyFrost



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Heavy Angst, Shameless Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Submission, weskclaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 01:48:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13730535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyFrost/pseuds/TheLadyFrost
Summary: Trapped. Abandoned. Unwilling. Unyielding. She finally finds herself lost in her own nightmare....and craving the enemy.





	The Prince and the Slave

A/N: This story is for Sofistinha. The greatest shipper of WeskerxClaire out there. It's a one shot. It's Dubious Consent and Non-Con elements mixed with a storybook feel. It's from Obsession - but it's how things would have gone had no one ever come looking for our missing red haired darling. What would she do? The fantasy says...maybe she'd do this. This is somewhat OOC for Claire, I know that. It's a fairytale concept. I'm aware of it. Read it KNOWING that.

The idea for some of this TOTALLY plays homage to ironbutterfly25's Forsaken. The storybook feeling of it coupled with the control. If I hadn't channeled her awesome stuff for this, Claire would have been throwing whoopie cushions and farting. So thank GOD for her.

 

THE PRINCE AND THE SLAVE ----

Day One: 11:15 p.m.

Somewhere in the wilderness…

There was blood dripping down her body.

The realization of that alarmed her even as she dangled. She was bound to the cold stone and the sounds of dripping somewhere in the musty darkness was her only companion. Terrified, her eyes tried to find something beyond the torchlight that flickered on the far wall.

She couldn't see the source of the blood. She couldn't tell where she was bleeding if she was bleeding if it was fresh, old, or even hers. She was naked with her arms bound above her head with iron shackles.

Claire made some sound of fear as the door opened with a creak of rusty hinges.

He entered the room in all black. Did he ever wear anything that wasn't all black? He wasn't alone this time. The last two times he'd come in the room to question her, he'd been alone. This time? He brought a pale-faced servant with him.

The servant carried a tray.

The tray had a single plunger filled with dark liquid.

Wesker lifted the plunger in one gloved hand. "Claire Redfield…I find you try my patience. I've prepared this truth serum to loosen your lips. Shall we dispense with the normal torture and begin the evening with it?"

Claire jerked against her bonds. The last two times he'd come in he'd tried first intimidation. He'd threatened her, he'd threatened Chris, he'd threatened Sherry and Leon and everyone she loved. When he realized she wouldn't cower to any of that, he'd shifted his focus to torture. He'd turned her to the wall to whip her.

The strike and slap of leather on her back had stolen her breath. It had robbed a scream from her mouth. It had left her with snakelike stripes of blood on her perfect skin. He didn't permanently mar her…no…but he left her welted and wounded. And he wasted his time.

He could kill her slowly, daily, and she'd never speak a word of where Sherry was. Never. Ever.

Wesker wrapped his hand in her sweaty, sticky hair and drew her face back to look at him. "Shall we try this another way?"

His hand shifted. She watched it like the hens must watch the fox the moment he breaches their sanctuary and begins to stalk them. He didn't hit her. He'd never hit her. Not like that.

He cupped one of her naked breasts in his gloved palm and whisked a simple thumb across her nipple. His voice was so very, very, utterly bored when he intoned, "Perhaps this is how you get a Redfield to talk? My sources tell me your brother gave away quite a few secrets when Jessica Sherawat spread her perfect thighs for him. Perhaps you'll do the same."

The horror of that spilled between them like blood.

Was he talking about raping her?

….or did he think to seduce her? Surely not. Surely he was kidding. He was supposed to be an evil genius. A genius didn't bind a woman to a wall, threaten and torture her, and then try to seduce her. An idiot did. But she was betting he wasn't an idiot.

He tugged playfully on that breast and sent that fear into her soul.

No. No fool.

His intelligence was frightening. He knew exactly what he was doing. He thought to break her with fear. Death didn't scare her. But this? This numbed her soul with terror.

And lifted brow said he knew it.

It said he thought he'd already won. She'd be damned if he did. She'd rather die screaming than with her thighs spread for his demon seed.

Jesus Christ the idea was horrifying.

She spat in his face.

It hit those perfect glasses and slid, wet and ugly, down the flawless lenses.

His smile was frightening. It was frightening and wolfish and amused.

"I'm going to enjoy breaking you, Claire."

"….fuck you."

"Artless but surprisingly poetic given my plans for you." He shoved the plunger into her chest. Claire gasped, jerking against her bonds. And that hand molded the shape of her breast now, almost playfully.

"You're going to be screaming your secrets for me, Redfield. Screaming." He put his mouth to the delicate shell of her ear while the drug in her body brought her mouth open in a silent cry. "Do it now and save yourself."

Claire turned her head, slowly, and the world spun like she was drunk. She met those opaque lenses and shifted. Their mouths were a breath apart when she whispered, "You've spent years trying to break my brother, you stupid bastard. You think he's tough? You ain't seen nothing yet."

The drug stole her vision and turned it red at the edges. She slumped in her chains; body throbbing. She was paralyzed, frozen, dangling now at his mercy. And she was so afraid. Terrified. His hand slid down her bloody stomach and across one flawless hip. The drug turned the touch to fire against her skin. Not a truth serum..not exactly…an aphrodisiac.

Oh my god.

Whatever was in that cocktail made her skin hungry. It made her blood boil. It made her brain burn. She was trapped in the cage of her own need. She despised him. She abhorred him. She feared him.

And her body said she wanted him.

His hand brushed over her thigh and the trembling center of her need. Claire made a sound of horror. And her mouth said, "Don't you fucking touch me."

"Is that really what you want…Claire?"

Her mouth said, "Yes." But her body…her body arched against that gloved hand as it skimmed her inner thigh.

That was the power of his drug. It didn't stop the mind. It didn't even stop the body. She could still turn away from him. She did so now, in her bonds, but she shivered…she shivered for him. Because her flesh wanted his touch. It fairly throbbed for it. It was the ultimate date rape drug.

He was going to use it to destroy her.

He grabbed her face and turned it toward him. She watched his mouth move toward hers. She tried to jerk her head away even as he touched their lips together. She shook her head, denying, denying…and her mouth pressed back against him.

Oh my god.

The fear ate around the edges of her world and stole her breath while the drug devoured her and the sound of his delighted laughter chased her into the trembling dark that came with it.

Day 11: 3:15 a.m.

Such a pretty little thing. She dangled, like a painted canvas looking for the right master to put his brush to her and create…immortality. A legacy, she wielded the name he'd hated for so long in a way her brother had been missing. Redfield. The name rang like twin bells of rage and madness in his skull. And yet, yet, yet…it was so poetic. Because she was red.

Red.

Red.

Hanging there covered in blood and trembling for him.

She was watching him with something akin to horror in those familiar eyes.

The eyes were all Chris Redfield. They were long-lashed and lovely in a softer, sweeter, rounder face. She looked at him with that Redfield strength and his soul thrummed with the desire to watch her scream and bleed and break. He would love to have her brother chained to the wall opposite to watch but Redfield was too insulated. In the bosom of his organization, he was untouchable.

But his sister?

She was unprotected. She was unnoticed. She was the Redfield NO ONE was watching. He'd found her, stolen her, and kept her with little interest from anyone. She was lost here with him. She was lost in nightmares and there was no end for her. He could call out for the brother. The idiot, the self-sacrificing fool…Redfield would come. He'd offer himself. He could have them both.

But it wasn't Redfield he wanted. Not yet.

The new world demanded he find the answers. The new world needed creation. It needed seven days of his rebirth. It needed him to finish the prototype and bring the revival of mankind upon the unwitting masses. The world needed him to finish.

And he needed Claire Redfield to find the answers.

He was going to enjoy breaking her.

And he rarely enjoyed anything anymore.

Since his ascension, he was so bored by the human condition. Little interested him. He didn't care about money or sex or power. Not like he had when trapped inside his mortal coil. He didn't care about anything but revamping and reshaping the world in his image. He wanted nothing more but to create an immortal kingdom fit for his ruling.

A god complex? Megalomania? Perhaps. But he'd earned them both.

There was nothing and no one on earth like him.

He was the last of a line of creations by a mortal fool with a dream. When Wesker had found that old fool, he would release him from the shadow of his own delusions. He would remind him that he hadn't ever been a god…but he'd created one.

Spencer. The genius. His vision had been limited by human emotion.

Albert Wesker was limited by nothing.

And he was going to show that to the sister of, perhaps, if not his most mortal enemy…then his longest standing one. Chris Redfield had chased him from one end of the world to the other. He'd been a thorn in his side since refusing to die in the Spencer Estate. He'd stood above him while the tyrant had bled him and done nothing.

He'd stood there while Albert's mortal body had died and done nothing.

In a way, he was to be thanked for that. He'd given Wesker the keys to his own ascension. He was, in one hand, a god because of Chris Redfield. Grateful for it, he'd left Redfield alive all these years. He'd studied him, fascinated by the will of a mortal man to achieve revenge and to seek redemption. It was the catalyst that pushed men beyond their boundaries. What would Redfield become with the shackles of his human soul removed?

Would he become a god?

Or a devil?

It was such a delicious conundrum. The answer was coming. But it started with Claire Redfield. And ended with Uroboros.

Even the name was victorious.

Wesker said, softly, "How are you feeling….Claire?"

She said nothing, watching him like a mouse watches the cat who intends to devour it.

Wesker moved toward her, pacing her like a scientist studying his creation. He watched her like she was his Frankenstein's monster. And she was, in a way. He was testing the first of a series of cocktails he'd created for mind control. The first dosage he'd created had turned his original subject into a blithering idiot. It was too powerful for humans to withstand.

The second had been better but still flawed. The girl he'd tried it on had never stopped being under his control. And she'd followed him like a pathetic puppy. He'd finally given her to his most trusted companion to dispose of her.

She was currently a flagrant, horrifying, beautiful human artwork in his castle. His most trusted companion was excellent at art work. Excellent. He was a Picasso, a Pollack…unappreciated for the scope of his abstract vision. But brilliant. Wesker had found him as a sweet little sidewalk killer in a back alley in Italy. He'd been wrist deep in a chest cavity. Their eyes had connected over the mangled remains of a prostitute and Wesker had known then, and always after, that this Jack the Ripper of modern times was meant to sit at his right hand in the new world.

He couldn't wait to share the joy of it with Claire. Perhaps giving her to Alesio would make her squeal like a pig. But there was little fun in that. And the only thing that elicited any real emotion anymore was the fun of control.

He wanted to control her.

And it started here in this room.

Wesker moved toward her and, in a single move, unshackled her hands.

She dropped to the floor and cowered, crab walking backward away from him. He let her go. She couldn't run far. And she'd never outrun him.

She hit the door of the room and found it locked. Panicking, she turned back to face him.

And then she did what a Redfield would do: she lifted her hands into fists as if to fight him.

Amused, Wesker studied her. "What will you do with those hands, little girl? Will you hit me? I will let you try. Come at me then."

She did. Bless her. She raced right at him. The balls she had clearly came with the name. Chris had always been a lot of things but he'd never been a coward. Claire threw a perfectly executed punch at his face.

He shifted his head to the left, minutely, at the last moment. And he didn't hit her back. He grabbed her wrist, he twisted her arm a little and made her gasp, and he put her against the wall on her face. Panting, she spat at him, "PIG!"

"I feel that's an unfair remark, Claire. I have never been anything but courteous this evening. I haven't even been rude. And I can be….rather rude when it suits me."

"I hate how you say my name! You bastard!"

"Do you?" Wesker considered and tested the limits of the drug. He slid his hand over her hip. She gasped, jerking against him. Toward him? It was impossible to tell.

He said, "Do you hate me, Claire? I don't think you do."

"….I'm going to kill you."

"Will you? Time will tell. And you bore me. You sound like your brother. And his threats are generic. You won't kill me. But you will tell me what I want to know. I offer you this last chance to do so now."

Claire lifted her free hand…and gave him the finger.

Wesker laughed. He laughed. Amused. He would always be amused by the stupidity of the human condition. Bravery; what a dumb emotion.

"Very well. I did warn you." The hand that slid around her hip moved farther down.

Claire, figuring out too late what he intended, cried, "No! Don't!"

But, of course, he did. He shifted those gloved fingers down her groin and put them inside her. He wasn't even gentle about it. He wasn't even pretending to be. He pushed her against the wall, she smelled the blood and mold there, and he drove his fingers into her body like he'd rip her open with it.

Claire bucked her body against him, shouting now. "No!"

But the no was confusing. It was confusing. Because she was bucking, yes, but she wasn't bucking away. Entirely. Not entirely. Her body pushed against that invading hand and invited it harder into her.

It was the moment he knew that the drug worked. It worked. Perfectly. It would need a higher compound dose on the Progenitor virus to potentially make it perfect. Progenitor would likely offer the ability to have COMPLETE control of the subject. But for now? It was simply a beautiful, beautiful, powerful experiment.

Wesker laughed, watching the arch of her pale back as she simultaneously resisted and reacted. She shuddered, pressing herself against the wall. Her hips angled back toward him. Testing, he pulled her into his body.

And she went, making a sound in her throat.

He let go of her arms.

She didn't turn to embrace him. But she didn't hit him either. She seemed to be frozen, gasping. Her arms were above her head. They stayed there, fists clenched.

Wesker pumped his fingers into her body, harder, faster; testing the limits of what she wanted. Of what she'd do. He commanded her, low now, "Claire, tell me what you know." A whisper of it against her ear.

Claire struggled now. She struggled. She tried to escape that fucking hand. That hand of his that fucked her while she struggled. She turned her body to hit him and he pinned her arms above her head to hold her down. That hand…that hand…it kept pushing into the wet heat of her. He did it smoothly, swiftly, effortlessly. He worked her body like a madman, like a professional. He worked her like she'd paid him to it.

She kept saying, "Stop. Stop. Stop." And she kept humping his hand like a wild thing.

But she didn't tell him where Sherry Birkin was.

His thumb found the apex of her body. The gruff feeling of leather from those gloves abraded her even as they abused her. He sensed the tightening of her body as she raced toward…what? Horror? Orgasm? Both. Neither. BOTH.

She shook her head, fighting. She bucked forward, back. "Please!"

Please, what?

She didn't know anymore. She was so scared. Scared. Of what? That he'd break her? No. But that she'd come for him? Oh yeah. That terrified her. The disgust in her blood for him was painful. It was awful. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

She was desperately afraid if he made her come; she'd vomit.

And his invading fingers pulled free of her body with a nearly audible wet pop of sound. She gasped in relief and struggled now, just struggled, trying to get away from him. But he hadn't removed his hand to help her.

No.

He'd removed his hand to bite the tip of one finger on those gloves. He pulled it off and it dropped to the floor.

She whispered, "Don't. No. Please don't."

"Where is Sherry...Claire?" He hissed it against the delicate shell of her ear.

"…fuck…you." So soft. So angry. So filled with rage.

It fired his blood.

He shoved his bare fingers inside of her slick, wet, waiting body. She was so, so, so ready for him. Her body welcomed him back like a sucking thing. And the bare, raw, naked contact of him inside of her was incredible.

Claire snapped her thighs together, trying to dislodge him. Her hips humped his hand, trying to pull him deeper. His knee came up and thrust between her legs, opening them wider. His fingers brushed, brushed, rushed and thrust into her body without any suggestion of stopping.

She jerked in his hold, screaming, screaming. As the orgasm ran red around the edges of her vision. It was so close. So utterly close. No, she thought desperately, you can NOT come screaming for Albert Wesker. Even the idea of it was ridiculous. It was insane.

Who came screaming for a psycho!?

His thumb flicked the apex of her want. It flicked once, twice, three times and she did. She DID. She yelled, "Oh my god!"

And her body curled into the wall. Her body curled into his hand. Her body curled into itself with horror and shame and fear….and need. And she gushed. She gushed and rushed and burst. She burst in his thrusting hand like she'd been dying to do it. It made sense. It made sense. Because giving him this was going to kill her.

One fat tear squeezed down her cheek while she burst, dying, flying, crying softly against the wall. He let go of her hands. He let go of her hands to grab her hip and angle her body back against that plunging hand. She grabbed the wall and her body…her body rode his bare fingers through her release.

She made a sound of self-loathing and fear. She made a sound of loss.

His hand jerked out of her body, so hard, scary hard. Painfully hard. And he laughed.

He grabbed her hair and dragged her back to the wall. He pinned her arms above her head.

He put his slick hand against her lips and traced her mouth. Claire shivered, shivered, and spit in his face. It slid down his cheek.

Amused, he grabbed her breast and tugged. She gasped, grunted, and arched into his touch. Even as she cursed at him, "PIG!"

It seemed he would always be a pig to her.

He grabbed her face and held it, studying her.

REDFIELD.

The name alone was enough to make him enjoy this. Enjoy it. It was a shame she wouldn't last long enough to matter. He was going to break her soon enough.

The drug? It worked BEAUTIFULLY.

"That was just my hand…Claire. Imagine…what happens next. Tell me what you know."

Claire felt another fat tear plop down her cheek. She would NOT cry. He wouldn't get that from her. Now. EVER. EVER.

"Kiss..my…ass."

Admittedly…a poor choice of words. But she wasn't at her best when she was still having aftershocks from a forced orgasm.

He held her face…and licked the taste of her off his fingers while she watched.

Claire shuddered, disgusted. Disgusted. Disgusted...and, yet, her mouth opened for the taste of it when he dropped his head and put his tongue into her mouth to share.

It was the moment she knew, knew, knew…she was damned.

And the drug had started to wear off. The horror of it washed through her body. And she rolled her face to the side to gag. Gag. Dry heave and gag.

She was desperately afraid she was going to die here. Die here. Impaled on Albert Wesker's cock.

Day 26: 8:00 p.m.

She wore such a pretty party dress. It was purple and shimmered. It was a perfect bell with a heart shaped boddess. The perfect curve of her ample bosom was displayed like freckle dusted porcelain.

As she dined, she watched the faces around her.

The beautiful faces.

It was surreal. It was the blonde Nordic god with his endless beauty. Tall and commanding, a warrior with a black heart. Never the white knight, no, the black knight. The Dark Knight. The one that courted the darkness to bring the world to his hand.

Never a prince charming. The handsome face, the laughter, the smiles and charm…lies. Liar. FAKE. He was nothing more than a monster.

Did they know what waited beneath the effortless grace?

Did they know what he offered when the night was long and the torches burning?

Claire – consent…consent and I will let you go. Give me what I seek. Relent. Comply. I will offer you the world.

LIAR.

Always the injection now. Every night.

No one was coming. No one knew where she was. She was trapped here…in the arms of the liar. The fake. The dark knight. His victim. His toy.

Around her, dancing. Dancing. The world was dancing now.

Colors and laughter and beautiful gowns. A ball.

Would you like to go to the ball, Claire?

…yes.

Kiss me, Claire. Of your own free will. And I will take you to the ball.

One kiss. Freely given. It had cost her pieces of herself she couldn't understand.

The Dark Knight caught her eye now, watching her. He smiled. He gestured with his hand.

Claire knew, she could resist him here. She could make a scene. She could run from the dining hall and the ballroom and embarrass him.

But if…if she did…the horror of what he would do to her would never end. He would bleed her. He would inject her. He would touch her, stroke her, tease her. She would curse him and cry…and come. His TOY. His puppet. His slave.

She rose. She walked down the length of the table. Beautiful, resplendent. The red of her hair was woven through with crystals and sparkles and butterflies. Beautiful, resplendent.

He took her hand. He guided her to the reflective mirrored floor. She could see them now as they danced. He was effortless at it, smooth, slipping into each step like a professional. He twirled her, swirled her, stole her breath with it.

He danced like a prince…for a demon.

Against her ear, he said, so so softly, "Relent, Claire. Comply. I will give you the world."

The world.

It was beyond this castle. This farce. This lie where he held her. It was beyond him. And beyond the shimmer of bodies and laughter and music.

And the wall where he would bind her – and strip away her soul.

She rolled her face back. He smiled. The blue of his eyes…contacts…clearly. A handsome man. A beautiful prince.

LIAR.

DEMON.

MONSTER.

And she whispered against his perfect mouth, "…fuck…you."

The swirl of skirts. The laughter. It chased them from the room as he dragged her away. The moonlit veranda. The ivy clinging, crawling, swirling up the slick stone. The tinkle and tickle of soft rain around them like a storybook.

A fairytale.

The Prince…and the Unwilling Slave.

He slung her to the stone bench there. Her petticoats tangled around her legs.

She lifted angry eyes to him.

He grabbed her face and tilted it up to him. "Tell me what I need, Claire. Tell me. Relent. Comply. Enough of this."

"You think if you say it again…I'll suddenly change my mind? Which part of FUCK YOU did you misunderstand? The fuck? Or the you? You need me to sound it out for you? F-U-C-"

It was swift.

The slap.

He slapped her face.

She spit at him even as it stung. And his fist pulled her hair, tilted her head back, and sneered into her face. "So stupid. So stubborn. Redfields – how I will rejoice when I see the end of you both."

"Oh yeah? DITTO KIDDO."

And she jerked.

Because he'd stabbed her with that fucking needle. She hadn't even seen it. She didn't know it was there. He just stabbed her with it.

It stole her breath.

And her voice came out on a gasp, "…BASTARD!"

She tried to shift away and the bastard knelt at her feet. He threw up her petticoats. She tried to pull back and his hand found the smooth, warm inside of her thigh. She froze. Her eyes went wide.

And he smiled. "Tell me what I want, Claire."

She couldn't say no anymore. She could only shake her head now in horror.

The damn women who'd dressed her had left her without panties. She know why now. She knew. And she was so afraid it rolled off her in waves. It made her head swim.

And then he touched her. He touched the soft heat of her. And she made a small mewl of fear.

"Shall I stop, Claire? The choice is yours. Tell what I need and this stops."

She couldn't speak. Not a word. Her hips shifted away from his touch…her legs opened for him.

And he laughed.

He laughed.

She watched the moonlight on his head now. It bowed between her legs. She shook her head to deny it and her body bucked into his mouth. His mouth.

It delved onto her body like a feast. The party beyond the veranda went on. Swirling dresses, laughter, clinking glasses – masks and merriment. It was peppered by her gasping. It was peppered by the wet sounds of his feasting.

She spilled back on the bench even as she said, "…please stop…"

And her legs opened for more.

Her petticoats settled around his face. Her spine bowed, her hands grasping for his hair. It tunneled there. She yanked at him to dislodge him…she shoved him harder against her for more.

The reluctant slave. The victim.

The whore.

Her body whored for him. She felt him part her, play at her. Tongue in her, on her, fingers and stroking. She was so wet. She was gasping, " . No."

But her body was shaking. Her thighs quaking. Her eyes unable to look away.

One of his hands slid up her body. It caught her throat, it spilled her head back to the moonlight and held her. She felt a fat tear slip down her cheek. The pain of the pleasure, the horror of the want, the body and the mind so far apart…so far away. Cleaved from each other like pieces that were never a whole.

It spilled from her mouth. She felt the red shimmer of it. He curled his fingers in her, found that spot, and stroked it. She denied. Fighting. Fingers jerking him away…fingers rubbing him against the creamy need of her. Her sounds. They were high now, desperate.

"No…I don't…I won't…"

She would. She did. Every time he touched her…she did.

She whispered, "….don't…."

And his tongue curled up in her like a snake. A serpent. A hungry thing.

She came against his mouth with a cry of release. It rolled out of her. She spilled sticky and hot against his delving tongue. It took her, tasted, rolling in the release of her body like he'd swallow her whole.

She shook her head, she tried to pull away, she tried to pull him closer.

Her hands freed her body. It spilled him back.

She shoved him away…and her hands pulled him down.

She whispered, "…oh god, no…" And kissed him. Wet. Tongues and teeth. His laughter in her mouth. Her taste in her mouth.

….her hands on his pants. She was pulling at his zipper. She was trying to slide away. She was pushing and pulling and gasping. And crying.

And coming.

He stilled her, holding her hands to her belly. He gave her his tongue in a rhythm that had her humping in horror and need on that stone bench.

And he said, "Not yet. Not yet…keep resisting me, Claire. Keep resisting. I will destroy you with pleasure."

Oh god.

She believed him.

He left her on the bench. Gasping.

Shaking.

Crying.

Hating.

And still hungry for him.

Day 42: 11 a.m.

She sat for three hours in a small chair across from his desk. He worked. He made calls. He ignored her.

And he finally hung up and said, "Are you ready to comply?"

Claire shuddered. She shook her head: no.

His hand swirled the needle on the desk. She shook her head: no.

And he said, "Relent. Comply. Or I will destroy you."

No one was coming for her. She was here. She was here with him. The dark prince. The Liar. THE FAKE.

The thing she dreamed of when she slept. Her body bowing and bucking in the sheets. Her mind weeping and dying in her head. Her soul torn and tempted and trying to flee from him. Her hatred and her need warring inside of her.

She was afraid. She was afraid she was losing who she was. She was afraid…she was becoming his.

He lifted the needle. He moved around the desk.

She was shaking like a leaf. She stared at the window beyond his desk. It was snowing.

He grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. He put the needle to her throat. And she yelled, "WAIT! WAIT! JUST WAIT!"

He waited, watching her.

Those sunglasses.

She hated him.

Her hands shifted. She grabbed his zipper. His mouth crooked up in a half smile.

"What's this?"

She shook her head. He kept ahold of her hair. Her hands jerked down his . She reached inside to find him.

He set the needle down on the desk.

He kept her hair in his hands.

She'd do ANYTHING to avoid that needle.

Anything.

She spilled the heady length of him into her grasp. Long and pale. Thick and veiny against a nest of fragrant hair. He scooped back the other side of her hair.

And she opened her mouth to him.

The taste of him disgusted her. It make her gag. She tried to fight against her own actions. No drug now. Just her.

He pushed her down on him.

She fought the reflex to push away.

And she opened her throat to him.

He slid into her mouth, into her lips, the sticky slide of her saliva eased the way. She went part way and came back. Part way and came back.

And he said, "No."

And pushed her down on him completely.

He went to the back of her throat and down it. She gagged. Her hands grappled at his thighs to stop the assault. But he held her there, plunged past her limits, throbbing in her aching throat. She moaned, tears springing from the pain of it.

And he rode back so she could breathe again.

She gasped around the length of him. She pushed at his thighs to free herself.

And he said, "No. Do you want the injection, Claire?"

She hated him. She hated him. She hated that she shivered now. SHE shivered…for him. And hated herself.

Her hands shifted to his hips. She angled herself. And drove her mouth down on him now. Fast, wet, slick. She stook the meat of him into her aching throat with each plunge.

All the way. All in.

One hand slid into his pants to cup the needy weight of him. She rolled him. She drove her mouth down. She punished him with the press of teeth from time to time. He grunted, twisting his fingers in her red lockes.

He let her go. When she hesitated, he drove her back on him.

She shifted in the chair. She looked up the line of his body. He was watching the fat length of him shove forcefully into her aching jaws.

She thought , desperately, that he took FOREVER to come. COME, she cried in her head, so I can run away and throw up and die. COME.

And he pulled out of her throat.

She gasped, gagging a little at the pain of it.

She leaned away from him, trying to relearn how to breathe.

He slid the sticky, slick head of himself against the seam of her lips. He used the fat length of himself to lightly slap her face. Jesus. She trembled.

She spat, "Hurry up! Damn you!"

And he laughed. He laughed. He answered, "Will you comply?"

She shook her head: no.

And he pushed himself back into her throbbing mouth.

She was sore in her throat now. He was too big. And the angle too sharp. And the ride in and out too painful. She fought against it and he pushed her fully down on him again. He held her there. She grunted, gagging, and he rode back to give her air.

She slapped his thighs, protesting. And he grunted, "Finish me, Claire. Or I will put the injection into you. I will have you pull down your pants and fuck me. DO IT."

Jesus.

She went fast, hungry, moaning and taking it. She drove her mouth down like a wild thing. His hands slid out of her hair. They slid down, down, and cupped her breasts. He slid them inside her tank top and cupped them beneath her bra. He plucked her nipples, swirled her in his palms. And helped her drive him into the back of throat.

She moaned. She gasped. He tugged on her and had it going from tits to groin. She hated him.

And he came.

Unprompted. Unexpected.

She drove her mouth down on him and he just…went. He shot into the back of her throat so fast. It was thick and sticky and salty. And HOT. It burned. It hurt. It brought tears to her eyes again.

He ground her there as far as she could go. She fought. She gasped. She took it.

And he jerked out of her mouth while she gasped, shaking.

And finished by painting the pale mounds of her cleavage with the paint of him.

She shuddered….and hated him.

Day 69: 1 a.m.

She woke in the moonlight.

The smooth glide of his hands on her thighs. She shook her head, grabbing for his hands.

He spilled open her legs to taste her.

She bowed. Gasped. Naked. She was naked.

Had she gone to bed naked?

She gasped, "Oh please…don't."

He filled her full of his tongue. He laughed against her. His fingers slid into her, over her, under her. She spread the cream of her needy cunt around like painting the canvas of her want.

She cried, "GET THE INJECTION! PLEASE!"

And he laughed again. And shook his head: no.  
He rolled her body up to his mouth. His hands slid up her belly to palm her naked breasts. He rolled her, using his tongue to fuck her in the moonlight.

She gasped, shaking. She tried to get away.

He rolled her to her belly on the bed. He jerked her hips up. He filled her full of his driving fingers while she bucked, shaking, denying.

He painted her body with her own lying want. Her own faking.

LIAR.

She screamed for him. She came, screaming. As he fingered her sloppy heat.

She cried again, "Please….get the injection…please…"

And he whispered, "No."

She tried once again to flee. He caught her ankles and flipped her to her back on the bed.

She shook her head. Her hands came up to push. He jerked her in against him where he knelt on the bed. She pleaded now, shaking, afraid, "Please don't….stop."

Don't stop?

LIAR.

FAKER.

He thrust into the needy heat of her.

And she was so wet. She was so engorged. She was ready.

He hit the end of her. She cried out. She cried.

She cried as he fucked her.

The Dark Knight. In the dark night.

It was so wet. The bed was wet beneath her. He leaned down. She leaned up. They kissed. Tongues and need.

She mewled. Her hands stopped pushing on him. They grabbed his hips to urge him into her. The pace was manic now. Too fast.

His body made a wet slap into her. Hers sucked him in. A mouth that mewled. A cunt that craved. A girl that gave herself to the enemy. Her enemy. Her captor.

The Prince…and the Unwilling Slave.

His mouth on her breasts. Tasting. Suckling.

Give me yourself Claire…and I will offer you the world.

She clasped him to her. She wept. She clung. She came.

She came in his arms as he plowed into her. Her belly cramped with each hit against her cervix. Her body bucked into his embrace.

She came screaming even as she cried, "…don't don't don't…"

Him…or her?

And his raping thrusts weren't raping. They weren't. They were plunging into her want for him. Her hatred for herself. Her need.

Her need to get away.

And to stay there with him…impaled.

He grunted. She gasped. Her hands shoved at him.

"No! DON'T!"

And he came in her. He pulsed at the core of her and came in a scalding wash. He filled her womb with his bursting seed. She cried, groaning, shaking her head…denying. Even as her hips humped, humped, and her body swallowed him down like a whore.

Day 94: 8 a.m.

He was on the phone again.

She sat in the chair, shaking.

She sat there, shaking for him.

He hung up, brows lifted.

"I don't need you anymore , Claire. I have no more need of Sherry Birkin."

He rose. She shook her head.

He came around the desk to her. "You are free. Go back to your brother. Tell him how you spread your thighs for me. How you begged. How you took me into you and screamed for more."

Claire shook her head. She shook it again: no.

"Get up, Claire. We are done here."

Her hands shifted. She grabbed him. She pushed him onto the desk. He grunted and shifted.

Claire grabbed the letter opener from his desk and put it to his eye. He blinked, amused. So amused.

"Try it. Do it. Show me what Redfield's do when they are beaten. Kill me. Prove your mettle."

The stupid dresses he made her wear. He knew she hated them. He knew she hated him. He dressed her like a doll. All pretty hair and shimmery g owns.

Bastard.

Like a storybook.

A fairytale.

The Prince…and the Unwilling Slave.

She pressed the letter opener to his cheek. She spilled his blood. He laughed. He laughed and let her.

She hated him.

Her left hand jerked on his zipper. Her right kept the letter opener to his eye.

She jerked him into her fist. He grunted. He groaned.

She jerked up her skirt and pushed him back on the desk.

She took him into her with that letter opener to his eye. He gasped, he grunted, groaned…he let her move, slap down on him, steal his breath. She raped him – watching his face like she'd burn it into her brain forever.

She shook atop him. Riding. Riding. Wet and sticky. Blood on his face from the letter opener. Her blood in her veins burning.

She mewled. She bounced. She gasped, "Give me what I seek…and I will let you go."

And he laughed, laughed, grabbed her hips and ground her on him. She rode, throwing away the letter opener. He leaned up, spilling her into his lap. He lifted and lowered her onto his throbbing need.

She grunted, sucking him in, bowing and humping. She grabbed his hair in her fists and fucked his mouth with her tongue. She hated him.

She hated him.

His hand slid around her. His fingers slipping over her slippery body atop him. He smeared his fingers over her ass. He lowered her atop his thrusting body in a manic pace.

He hooked a finger into her needy little ass.

She bucked, screaming, and spilled wet and hot all over him. All over them. She grabbed his face and slapped him so hard.

He came in her, grunting. It was so hot. It scalded.

He pumped her full of him, laughing.

Day 112: 9 a.m.

Chris stood on the bridge. The water rushed beneath it.

And her brother….was finally here. He was here.

He was beckoning to her. The helicopters, the men. The commotion. It was everywhere.

"Claire! COME ON!"

Why did her name so stupid from his mouth?

She glanced behind her. Into the room where HE was gathering his things. The passage beside the desk opened, showing the long trail into the dark.

She turned back to the window.

Her brother, shouting for her. "Claire! Jump! We'll catch you!"

The Prince…standing at the passage that would take him away. The liar. The fake.

She would be both now if she went back…

She hesitated. And she waved to her brother.

She waved…and she followed the Prince into the passageway. He laughed. He laughed.

She hated him.

She loved him.

They raced into the dark. The storybook. The fairytale.

She raced as her brother roared his denial. As he cursed. As she forgot to be Claire Redfield anymore. She was no longer her.

She was his.

She was his story.

The Prince…and the Willing Slave.

A/N: The ending is so NOT Claire. I know that. I promise, I wrote it KNOWING that. This is just to appease the fairytale IDEA of obsession. She's obsessed with him. She makes a choice to chase him. It's not her. It's a FAIRYTALE.


End file.
